Solitaire
by PhantomDaae1981
Summary: Focuses on the character Spencer Reid from the television show Criminal Minds, from the episode “Fear and Loathing“ up to “Elephant‘s Memory.” The focus is how he stopped using the drug dilaudid. Also, this story contains slash! Reid/Hotchner.


**Author's Note: **This oneshot fanfiction focuses on the character Spencer Reid from the television show _Criminal Minds, _from the episode "Fear and Loathing" up to "Elephant's Memory_." _The focus is how he stopped using the drug dilaudid. This fanfic includes both the first and final scene of "Elephant's Memory," but it _does not _include the main bulk of the episode (the case, the unsub, etc.). This fic is not _necessarily_ in the same "universe" as my other CM fic ("Face in the Mirror"). Also, _this story contains slash! _There is explicit reference to a relationship between Reid and Hotchner (Reid/Hotch is the only obvious slash in this one, despite the presence of Gideon and Morgan, as well).

_**Solitaire, **__a story by PhantomDaae1981._

"I'm struggling," I had told Gideon.

But, clearly, he hadn't understood exactly what I had _meant _by that statement.

He could understand his protege suffering some symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder, but _drug addiction _was another issue altogether.

Gideon himself knew what it was like to experience PTSD, after having truly feared for his life. And, because he saw _me_ as a younger version of _himself,_ he was able to accept the fact that I might be having flashbacks after being held captive by Tobias. In fact, it made perfect sense to him that I might struggle in this way.

But, clearly, Gideon did not realize that I was self-medicating, that I was handling my flashbacks by shooting up dilaudid at least a couple of times a day. After all, that wasn't what _Gideon _would have done.

Then again, the Footpath Killer hadn't repeatedly injected Gideon with a powerful narcotic, which is precisely what Tobias had done to _me. _Otherwise, I would never have known that sweet oblivion in the first place.

Tobias must have thought he was making the kidnapping easier for me to handle, because drug abuse was how _he _handled the abuse he himself had suffered.

But I would have much preferred to be awake and aware during my trauma. Because, at least, _then _I wouldn't have developed a taste for a dangerous drug.

Even though nobody would have ever suspected that naive genius Spencer Reid, PhD could have become a drug addict, it really did make sense. My mother was a paranoid schizophrenic, so mental illness was in my genes. And what was addiction, if not a form of mental illness?

But I was a "good boy." Mother always said so, and my colleagues certainly believed it, too. While I regretted the stereotypical " innocent child prodigy" role I fulfilled for the team, I was quick to lash out when Prentiss questioned the change in my behavior, brought about by dilaudid.

I had to hide what this drug was doing to me, just as I had hidden what my mother's illness did to me when I was a child.

* * *

Of course, after Prentiss confronted me, and after I spoke with Gideon, I knew I would have to stop injecting dilaudid.

I had realized that it really _was _my calling to be an FBI profiler, and I would never again neglect my duties as such. Of course, that meant I could not impulsively do as I pleased. I needed to follow instructions, and I needed to show up for the job when it was expected of me. Injecting myself with narcotics made that impossible, so I knew then that I had to stop.

But it _killed _me that Gideon didn't understand, didn't _really _understand. It _killed _me that I was basically alone with my newfound addiction.

I didn't want to be alone, but I had no choice.

I asked Gideon if I could have a week off, because I knew I would need it. He agreed, of course, without even needing a complete explanation from me.

* * *

Sitting on the toilet in my cluttered apartment, wracked by cramps and acidic diarrhea, I wished for nothing more than Morgan holding my hand. He was closest to my age, and he put a great deal of effort into empathizing with me.

But I knew that Morgan was unable to empathize with opiate withdrawal, so I did not call him.

Besides, when I had tried to tell him about the intolerable images I saw when I closed my eyes, how I now _knew _what murder victims felt just before death, he had given me some phony pep talk about using my experience as a victim to become "a better person."

It was a fucking joke. I was not "a better person." I was quickly on my way to becoming a drug addict when I had that talk on the plane with Morgan.

But I couldn't tell _him _that, of course. Instead, I waited until the plane landed, hurried home, and shot up.

Now, yet again, I was alone at home.

This was the worst diarrhea I had ever had in my entire life... Despite the research I'd done, so I would know what to expect when coming off of excessive use of opiates, I was terrified.

I started to retch, so I reached for the trash can. My vomit was the color of burnt sienna.

* * *

Finally done in the bathroom, I stumbled in the living room and collapsed on the couch. My cell phone was vibrating on the coffee table. Somehow, despite the tremors, and aching, I managed to pick it up.

"_Hotch calling," _it said.

Against my better judgment, I answered the phone.

"Reid? Is that you?" Hotch demanded.

"Yeah..."

"You don't sound well... Gideon said he couldn't reach you, and you missed your appointment with the psychologist. What's going on?"

"Muscle pain, diarrhea, throwing up..." I whispered. Then, in a more secure voice: "Nothing, Hotch. I'm just not feeling very well."

"Are you staying hydrated? Do you need to go to an urgent care center? I can take you; Haley will understand-"

"_No!" _I interrupted. "I don't need any help. I can do this alone."

There was a long silence on the other end of the line, which somehow terrified me. I felt my heart fall into my stomach, and I was afraid I might vomit again.

"What exactly are you talking about, Spencer?" Hotch's voice was gentle; he didn't usually call me by my first name.

"I... I just want to be alone, Aaron." I didn't usually call Hotch by _his _first name either, but considering our particular _arrangement, _I had every right to do so.

"Listen to me," he ordered. "I can hear your voice; I can tell that you've got some sort of tremor right now. And you've told me that you've got diarrhea and vomiting. And I've _seen _the behavioral changes... Spencer... Are you detoxing?"

I didn't think it was possible, but my heart began to race even faster than before.

For a moment, I was silent. But I knew I had to answer him, somehow.

"Why would you say _that? _What would I be coming off of?" I nervously chuckled.

"_Dilaudid, _Reid," Hotch said, impatiently. "The drug that Hankle kept giving you. I'm not stupid; do you think I haven't seen opiate addiction before?"

I was dumbfounded... How could Hotchner have realized my secret, when even _Gideon_ was blind?

"Look, I tried to tell Gideon that I thought you were abusing drugs," Hotch continued, as if reading my mind. "He didn't believe me. I think he sees you as his son, and he can't imagine his son as an addict. But you're in the early stages, Reid. You can get through this, but you really should go to a hospital to manage the withdrawal."

My head was spinning, and it took all the effort in my body not to vomit, then and there, on the phone with Hotch.

"_I don't need any help, Hotch," _I managed, breathlessly. "I'm sick, but it will pass."

"Are you confirming to me that you're detoxing from dilaudid?"

"I confirm nothing, and I deny nothing!" I spat.

"I don't want you to go through this alone, Spencer. For one thing, it isn't safe. For another thing, you deserve to be comforted. If you won't go to the hospital, at least let me come over, so I can keep an eye on you. Besides, your muscles could probably use a massage."

Now, he'd gone too far.

"Is that really _all _you think about, Aaron? I'm in the most pain I've ever experienced, and you just want to _fuck?"_

"No! That's not what I meant at _all, _Spencer! I'm _here _for you, and I'm afraid-"

"Well, _don't _be!" I interrupted. "I don't want your help; I don't _need _anyone's help. I don't know _why _you've got this idiotic idea that I'm in opiate withdrawal. It's the flu; _it's just the flu. _And I can take care of myself, the same as I always have. I'll be back to work in a week, just like I promised Gideon. Please don't call me again."

* * *

Hotchner never mentioned our conversation to me, thank God. In fact, _nobody _ever mentioned _anything _personal to me, after that. Nobody said Tobias' name; nobody remarked that I'd been through a traumatic experience, _nothing. _

It was as if nothing had happened at all. It was invalidating; it was _isolating._

I still struggled, for a little while.

I got myself through the physical withdrawal, but I still had occasional slips for a couple of months. With each little relapse, it was more difficult, emotionally speaking, to bounce back.

And, when I made a comparison between "pyromania" and drug addiction, I hadn't really _meant _anything by it. But, when I caught Gideon's eye, and when I saw the sad expression on Morgan's face, I knew that my secret was out.

I had said it would be "impossible to quit without help..."

I was becoming too honest; I needed to be more careful!

* * *

Despite it all, I proved the statistics wrong. I _had _managed to stop on my own. Yes, maybe there had been a few setbacks, but I really _did _manage it on my own. For _ten months, _I managed it on my own. The desire to use dilaudid became less and less, until I barely thought about it at all.

But, then, there was that damned kid. Well, I _thought _of him as a kid, anyway. He was actually a couple of years older than I was... But he had died, had been shot, while begging for his life.

_And I couldn't get his face, his voice, out of my head. _

I wanted nothing more than to forget that kid, to get him off my mind. The easiest way to do that, of course, would be to inject myself with dilaudid. Dilaudid could make me forget anything, _everything. _

But it had been _ten months! _How could I possibly still have this drive for the drug?

I had never wanted to think of myself as an addict. But, despite my reluctance, I found myself researching 12-Step groups. I read about Narcotics Anonymous, read about "cravings."

Apparently, the only requirement for membership was a desire to stop using.

I had _already _stopped using, though. But I was afraid, with my current "cravings;" I might soon give in to dilaudid's seductive call.

It wasn't fair... I hadn't _asked_ for this; Hankle had _given_ it to me.

And, now, he was dead, and I was left here to suffer.

* * *

Lying in bed with Aaron Hotchner, I was struck by the impulse to confide in him.

"I've been thinking about going to a meeting..."

"Mmm?" He absent-mindedly stroked my hair. "What kind of meeting?"

"_Hotch!"_ I sat up, frustrated.

"Wait!" He sat up, too, and grabbed my hand. "I'm sorry! I wasn't thinking... _Really? _You've seemed to be doing so well..."

"Yeah, well," I whispered. "I've been _doing _well for ten months, but not exactly _feeling _well. Not _lately, _anyway... It scares me..."

"I think you should do whatever you _need _to do to take care of yourself. That matters more than anything else does. I told you a long time ago that I thought you needed help to get over your addiction."

"And, I told _you _that I'm not certain that I _am _an addict. I don't need you to define anything for me."

Hotch sighed, and got out of bed.

"Fine. I trust you'll do the right thing."

* * *

It was fairly easy to find an appropriate 12-Step meeting. I looked online, and found Beltway Clean Cops, a group of recovering addicts who were also in law enforcement. I thought this particular group would best understand my particular situation, having been first hooked by an unsub, and then triggered again by yet _another _unsub.

But, naturally, I was called away from the meeting by the very career that had caused my problem in the first place.

I must protect his anonymity, of course, but _he_ followed me... He gave me his one-year coin, and told me to give it back to him in two months, when _I _reached _my _one-year anniversary of being clean.

I had to hurry to FBI headquarters, making some pathetic excuse about having been at a movie.

* * *

But this case ended up being quite the challenge to my sobriety. Everything about it triggered me to use, everything about it angered me, and everything about it convinced me that _I, _no one else, knew what was right.

I fought Hotchner. I broke the rules.

And I cried, because the long-repressed childhood memories were still there, and would _never_ go away, no matter how I tried.

_I _could have _been _this unsub. But, instead, I was supposed to find and capture him, dead or alive.

I would _not _capture him dead, no matter what the job dictated.

Saving him meant saving myself.

So, I did. No matter the risk.

* * *

On the plane, Hotch berated me. He practically threatened to fire me, and warned me that he _would _fire me, if I ever behaved so recklessly again.

Still, I knew I had done what was right. Really, there had been no other choice.

And, although he didn't _say _it, I think that Hotch understood my motivation, even if he couldn't condone it.

Then, in a gentle, yet matter-of-fact voice, he told me he thought I should catch the rest of "that movie" when the plane landed, while acknowledging that it wasn't any of his "business."

He was obviously being careful not to share my personal affairs with the rest of the team, but I could not mistake the knowing look in his eyes. He knew that the "movie" I had been attending before this case was actually a 12-Step meeting.

For so long, I had been very torn with regard to my secret relationship with Hotch... Should I share my deepest thoughts with him, or should I keep things strictly carnal?

Now, I had my answer.

I had already asked for help at the Beltway Clean Cops meeting. I had admitted that I couldn't do everything on my own.

Perhaps, it was time to truly open up to Hotch, as well.

Not here on the plane, of course.

But, sometime.

Later.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Please leave a review or send a message! I love to get feedback about my writing, even if it is constructive criticism.


End file.
